Little Dreams
by lethergo
Summary: Kate finds herself pregnant after a one night stand with her boss. Now they have to step up together and be a family. Smut, fluff and life.
1. 1

…

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

x

"Pregnant?"

"You're pregnant, yes. Congratulations." The sight of over enthusiastic smiles thrown anywhere near her direction is not what Caitlin Todd needs right now. A waste bucket to throw up in – hell yes, a steady hand works well too. Yes. They both work.

Kate clears her throat, and she hears her mother's mutter of disapproval. One does not snort like a man in the company of a man, after all.

One does not run around with a sig attached to one's hips, either, but oops – sorry mom.

She shakes her head, shaking away the unpleasant thoughts of her past to deal with the surprising news of her future. "How far gone am I?" She braves a glance at the monitor that shows the steady heartbeat of the child she is carrying.

"Eight weeks," the doctor smiles. "Providing the given date was in fact the last time you had sex, Miss. Todd?" A quirking eyebrow is all he finishes with. After 22 years of giving women, old and young, married and single, the news they are expecting, Dr. Ames had become quite adept at spotting a liar in his office.

This sharpened beauty before him is definitely no liar.

If she is however, Kate Todd has the least impressive poker face he had ever come across.

Despite her dark hair, sleek and enticing – perfectly styled, the obviously expensive tailored slacks with a matching blazer she has at her side, and the creaseless shirt, she looks petrified.

Understandable though, considering he has just told this woman, obviously exhausted, dark circles and hollow cheekbones from obvious weight loss overriding her features, that she is pregnant.

Not even her holstered gun can save her from this.

"That's not possible!" She blushes at the outburst. "That's not possible," though it clearly is, "I'd have known…"

She rises slightly to peer over her generous breasts, examining her slender waist and flat abdomen. She glances back and forth from her stomach to the monitor that is frozen with a screen shot of her baby. It's incomprehensible.

As hard as she fights, the tears well in her eyes and refuse to piss off. She knows logically it's true.

Eight weeks ago she had Gibbs flat on his back, riding him like it was no one's business. She remembers him pulling out with a streak of fear in his eyes. She remembers looking down to see him still hard, condom broken and bunched and high on his shaft. Her words: "did you come inside me?"

Gibbs' fearful nod – blue eyes alight with nerves had almost been funny. She's on contraception. There's no way this should have happened.

Damnit, she wasn't worried. She's not the type of woman to get knocked up after a drunken one night stand, fuck. She is, apparently.

Neither she nor Gibbs has approached what happened. No one addressing slick bodies, all-encompassing heat – passion that blew their minds.

"Granted, it's not uncommon for woman to not pick up on it," Dr. Ames starts. "However Kate, your weight has dropped, noted on your chart. Ideally, you should be heavier. Demanding job plus low rest plus small baby," he adds aloud, eyes on her. He shrugs. "You're only eight weeks."

There's a lot of pressure _down there_, and she's uncomfortable as hell – plus she feels like the worst person on earth. Rachel brags every time she visits about how her children are god's gifts, she knew the second she was pregnant. Trust little ol' Katie to not know she's carrying.

"I'm not concerned for now, there's plenty of time for nutrients and a diet plan to ensure your baby has the best chance of developing normally, but by the looks of things its fine. You see?" At her small smile of encouragement, he continues. "Nice strong heartbeat, it looks cosy in there, huh?" her smile is indulgent.

"You originally came in for persistent headaches?" he asks, eyes on her chart again. "That could be a result of pregnancy. Bloods show high HCG." He hums. "The weight you've lost is my guess as to why you've not suspected." Kate just lays stiff. She feels stunted, like she's dazing. She's pale as hell, too.

She considers what he's telling her. She's been spending so much time trying to get her shit together after Gibbs, getting back to being the best. Not some girl with an infatuation for her unavailable boss. She has no spare time between work and Gibbs and life to linger, contemplating weight loss or fatigue.

"My menstrual cycles haven't altered?" she offers, preparing for the final blow Dr. Ames can deliver against her wall of denial. "My breasts don't feel different."

She blows off the thought of Tony's snarky laughter she'd get in her ear if he heard even a whisper of her conversation.

"Kate," he pauses, and gives a gentle smile. "It's common, periods don't always stop, HCG isn't always picked up with pregnancy tests alone. There's plenty of women everywhere that have breasts that become sore before and after cycles, and a woman who's been… suffering," he prods anxiously, "are going to look for excuses, and are going to look for alternative explanations."

"In your case, there's been blood work for persistent migraines." He looks over her with gentle eyes, taking in her downcast, worried expression, complete with eyes suspiciously glowing with unshed tears. "Is there anything I can do?"

Inhaling sharply, Kate holds eye contact to whisper a gracious no. "I think that's it."

They clean up quickly and he leaves her to redress.

When he comes back in, Dr. Ames offers a knowing grin, and Kate feels it almost penetrate the mist of unhappy air that surrounds her. Almost.

He hands her three rectangle pictures. They all show the blob of her baby. Their baby – little baby Gibbs.

He then steps closer, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, and hands her a smaller, palm sized shot that shows a clear image of blob. "For your purse," his voice is soft again, and then he throws another over enthusiastic smile to her, and she almost, almost, calls him a bastard.

He's been her lady doctor for longer than she can remember; she knows she'd get away with it. This is hard, he seems to know. Maybe he knows it's about to get a damn sight harder.

She wonders if he doubts her ability, could he? Does he have the right? An NCIS Agent who throws herself in front of guns and knives, having a baby. He so does.

Thanking him warmly, Kate puts the images in her bag and leaves. Back to work.

x

"Kate," Tony pips up the second the elevator dings, Ziva on his six.

McGee keeps his face in his computer, his lingering eyes the only tell he has.

Gibbs' sharp blue eyes latch on to her immediately, burning with frustration and something undeniable.

"Where you've been?" Tony asks, "Gibbs' wants your head." His mutter is quieter again, though his smirk is devious, the little shit stirrer.

"Mind your own, DiNozzo," she snaps, rubbing her forehead as she sits. Ziva eyes her but offers nothing more than a smile and a hello.

She keeps her head down until it falls silent, and then as expected, the figure looms over her desk. "Kate," Gibbs demands her attention. His voice is a challenging husk. She looks up hesitantly, and Gibbs seems to notice her color – or lack of. His brows furrow for a second, before he masks it with a well-practiced ease.

"It won't happen again," her voice is thickly laced with the overwhelmed tiredness she feels. She meets his eyes again, dark on cerulean blue.

His smile is quick, almost unidentifiable. "I know," and he goes back to his own desk, every Agent's set of eyes on his the whole way.

x


	2. 2

first section is a flashback

x

God, she's insane.

That's the only viable explanation she has for why she's on her back under Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

Insanity, she's pleading insanity to angels in heaven and devils in hell. Pre-marital sex means she'll probably join them down there anyway, but Gibbs has just eaten her out like it's going out of fashion. Save me a seat, Satan. So, so worth it.

He groans from above her before kissing her again. It's furious, slopping. He's kissing her like the only air he can breathe is the air he steals from Kate Todd.

"Please," she gasps as they separate again. Her hips thrust lightly, brushing along the length of him without drawing him in. "Come on," she encourages, and cerulean blue eyes alight with humor when she bites her lip – devious little wench. She's taunting and teasing and oh so wet, he doesn't stand a chance.

She scratches a steady five-finger print down the muscles of his back, broad and marine-trained despite his age. He's the epitome of sexy and she's wanted him since Air Force One. She silently sends a blessing to Abby, without her and her annual ball, this would have never happened.

Well…maybe one day, but she has gravel marks on her back from when Gibbs hoisted her again the wall outside the ballroom and took her with his fingers.

She has a bruise on her hip already forming from where he pushed her against the door face first and stole her panties.

If she wasn't in love with him before then, she is now.

"Kate," he growls when she runs her hands along his chest before coming back to her own to tease her nipples, stiff and aching with her need. Gibbs resists her long enough to ask for a condom, and that's a stroke of luck in itself.

He's wanted this woman, so soft, so enticingly wonderful with a smell to match, in his bed – on his desk, in his elevator – for as long as he can remember.

A free supply of bourbon and a black dress that stops before the knees and dips low into a cleavage and he's a goner. She's a goner.

They're goners together.

With more strength than he gives her credit for (or maybe it's the chauvinist in him that wants to keep her safe and make sure she's never injured or taken from him, that doesn't acknowledge just how damn good she is), Kate flips him on to his back, looming over him with a self-conscious grin, thumbing the condom.

"Kate," he growls again, and his agent relishes in the intimacy, the playfulness. Finally she rolls the protection down the length of him with a well-practiced ease that makes his teeth itch, and moves to sit up. "You're so beautiful," he mutters, and Kate looks for a blush that never appears. The charmer.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

Seriousness assumes his face and for a second she believes he'll say no. Instead he caresses her cheek with a calloused hand and smirks. "I'm sure."

He's a savior with blue eyes like the ocean and hands that are holding her like she's a child. She could fall in love with his man.

The sober and mortified while indignant side of her knows she already is. The side that fantasizes about coming home from work with her boss after a hard day and being held in bed… by her boss – the ideal world where rule #12 doesn't exist and they don't turn away like lightning when their gazes linger for a beat too long.

"Are _you_?" he asks, and she snaps out of her reverie to realize she's been dripping on his stomach with a dazed look on her face. "Yes," her tone is soft, feminine.

He cups her breasts and she swears he likes this side of her. Tight stomach, generous breasts – thighs that could kill a man and love him simultaneously.

Hazel eyes with flecks of gold through green that could hypnotize a lesser man. Gibbs is no lesser man but he's raptured all the same.

From her perch of thighs aside his hips, she reaches down and grips him at the base, pumping him once and then twice before reaching down to spread herself.

He hisses through clenched teeth when she barely presses inside, the tip of him engulfed by wet heat, and Kate can't hold back the gasp of pain as she lowers herself down the girth she isn't quite sure she can take comfortably. "So tight, Kate," he grunts. "So fucking tight."

She doesn't stop until she's balls-deep, and then she takes a second to relax and become accustomed to the fullness, delightful and satisfying.

Gibbs sits up without jostling her, his lips on hers a mere whisper of contact, a tease that he pulls away from when she moves in for. "Gibbs," she laughs, and he imagines the same sound under sunny skies and grassy mountains. Oh, what this woman does. What started off furious and rapid is now something slow, tender.

Her hips start to roll gently, as languid as their kisses, little gives and takes. She lowers and he rises, their joining mirroring the slickness of tongues adjoining.

"So good, so good," she gasps, and she bites her lip as her eyes roll back when he thrusts up hard, just once, with a chuckle and a gleam in his eyes.

"How good?" he inquires, and kisses her again before letting her answer. The smack of lips mimic the squish of wetness that he'd thought she'd blush at, but every time she looks down she goes a bit faster, and he thinks maybe Caitlin enjoys sex a bit more than she lets on.

Maybe she just doesn't want DiNozzo to learn that snippet of pleasure-inducing knowledge.

"So full," he's reducing her to little sobs of panting with every thrust, his forearm holding her back to press her against his chest, her nipples grazing on his hair. He smiles indulgently (he's not ashamed to admit he didn't know he had it in him) when she murmurs indiscernibly. "So deep, so good, yes Gibbs, baby, yes."

Her unintentional slip is enough to make his balls tighten and he thinks for a terrifying second that he's coming.

She smiles and tugs his lip like she knows exactly that.

Sweat is accumulating thickly between them, creating a slap of skin that choruses quite nicely with the rhythmic smack of headboard on wall. He grunts with every thrust and grabs her ass when she doesn't take him down to base. Her responding flush makes him thrust harder. The pressure in her stomach says, "Yes, more."

She keens softly when her hand feeds down between them and rubs her clit, a sharp blue vein running up her forearm that reminds her of flowing blood and pressure and the accompanying burn she associates with Gibbs' grunts. It's good, so good, and she rubs harder. Wants harder. "Come on, come on," Gibbs chants.

"I'm co – I'm coming," she gasps as loud as she's been all evening before latching on to his shoulder and biting through her orgasm, stopping only when she tastes blood. With a groan he snaps up and pounds and gives and offers blow after blow through tightness before he freezes, coming inside her while she's pinnacled.

"ffffffuck," he smothers, breathless as Kate flops boneless against his chest. She feels so thoroughly, thoroughly satisfied, beaming when he looks the same.

Warmth settles inside her and she shifts as he looks down to grip the condom at the base. He halts with a start, brows creased with fear.

"Kate," he whispers, as if what he's about to say is the biggest secret in the world.

She looks down to see him, still hard but rapidly softening with the condom, broken and slit. "Oh," she muses, though her face is faux-passive. She can't resist.

"I…" he starts, and she's never seen him speechless. His pupils threaten the blue irises, wide with alcohol and sex, but they're undeniably alight with fear. "It's…"

"Did you come inside me?" she asks, her voice a lilt as head cocks to the side like the concept is unfathomable.

He nods like a reprimanded school boy.

Her face is passive for a second, two seconds longer before her face breaks out in a smile; deep dimples on show and teeth no match for the sparkle in her eyes.

"I'm on the pill." His jaw drops as she puts the condom in the bin beside her bed, and he avoids the urge to look if there's any more in there.

The possessive side of him hopes not. Gibbs' jaw clenches at the mere thought.

He slaps her ass hard when she resettles, and her joyful shriek gives him happiness he hasn't felt in years. Kate Todd feels oh so good in his arms and on his chest.

x

I'm on the pill my ass.

She's on the floor more like; hugging the toilet bowl like it's her best friend.

She did a psychology course in college, and though she learned a lot, she doesn't need to refer to it to know that the mind is a powerful thing.

Mind; body. Mind awareness=body awareness.

The previous week she learned she was pregnant, and this morning she's ragged from bed at 4:00 am with the urge to vomit like never before.

Baby Gibbs hates her. She knows it. He (she has a feeling it's a he, meh) didn't want her to know about him housing up in her womb like he owns the place, and now his evil plan has failed and she _does_ know, he's torturing her.

She leans back against the bath when she's mercifully allowed to gather her breath.

The last week has been the most stressful one of her life.

She avoids Gibbs harder than ever now, afraid despite logically knowing she there's no reason for it that he's going to get a whiff of their baby and just know.

Her father calls daily but she's petrified her evil spawn (she affectionately refers to him) is going to scream, "hey grandpa, yep, you're gonna kill my daddy when you know who it is" down the phone, and her father's going to find out she slept with a man twenty or so years older than her.

World war 3 sounds nicer than that conversation.

Her mother doesn't call, period. After their divorce she was the only one of her siblings that went to live with her father, and her mother hasn't quite forgiven her.

In bitter words and tongue lashings the battle-axe declares Kate only went with her father because he was the one with the money, never mind her father dutifully supports them all to this day.

Granted, her trust fund allows her to want for absolutely nothing, but that's not the reason.

She wonders for a minute whether her baby will ever feel so estranged from her as she does her own, and another round of nausea ends that particular thought.

x

"Kate, you're with me. Ziva, you and DiNozzo check out the warehouse. McGee, I want every phone call made in the last month."

A chorus of "On it Boss" rings out, and Kate heaves herself up with a sigh that Gibbs pretends not to hear.

She's exhausted, nauseous and was under the impression she could sleep on Bert the Hippo all day, lord knows why.

Gibbs grunts when she slams into his back, and only then does she realize that he's stopped for the elevator. The sound sends shivers down her spine and she tries with every ounce of vehemence in her body to stop herself recalling the night she heard it in her ear like it was a choir of perfection.

"You okay?" he asks, all nonchalant like he doesn't give a damn, but even he can see the exhaustion etched on her face.

And well, he couldn't care more for this woman if he tried.

"Mm," she gets out through a yawn. "Sorry, Gibbs." She smiles. "I didn't get much sleep." Your offspring kept my head down the toilet.

The fuck? Gibbs barely conceals the death-glare he sends after he realizes he's shooting her one. And before he remembers why he shouldn't at all be bothered by the fact something (or more infuriatingly, someone) has kept her up all night.

His look makes her realize what she said, and though technically it isn't a lie, a huge part of her wants nothing more than to correct herself. She doesn't want him to think their oh-so-meaningful sex (in her mind she says love-making) was anything but meaningful. But she doesn't want to tell him either.

She stays quiet. The elevator dings but the sound of Gibbs' teeth grinding is more apparent.

"Is your lack of sleep going to affect your job, Agent Todd?" he bites, and Kate flinches.

"Has it ever?" she quips, but his steely eyes in her direction silences anything further. He looks older and the world looks harsher when they're not a unity of sorts.

They're part of a whole team and they'd die for each and every one of them, but there are only two of _them_.

There's only one of them for the other.

"Keys?" he says gruffly, though she doesn't flinch this time. "I'm driving."

She fishes in her pocket for the silver bunch, and when she hands them over, his thumb brushes hers for a split second.

And maybe, she muses, all is not lost.

x


	3. 3

x

It's official; she killed nuns in a past life.

Someone somewhere is punishing her. She wants to blame her Gibbs-spawn (she changes it because "Gibbs" as opposed to "Satan" or "evil" is surprisingly fitting these days) but she's afraid he'll hear her and get a complex from the womb. It doesn't matter that said baby can't even hear yet.

Gibbs is an exception to everything…why would his offspring be any different?

She sits on the bench in the changing rooms. Everyone else is out in the gym warming up. Morrow is playing puppet master with Gibbs, and as a result, they've all been coerced into helping out with Probie-grappling-skills. She translates to, "they don't know their ass from their elbow, so we need Gibbs to show them."

The initial excitement Kate felt was gone in seconds when her stomach lurched with a threat of breakfast making a messy and untimely reappearance. She imagined a mini-Gibbs stomping his foot at being forgotten about, instantly forming a plan for attention. Toast in the waste bin immediately left of her desk should do it.

It hasn't been hard to hide it, but knowing she has to go out and grapple is making her palms sweat and her heart race. She definitely doesn't want herself thrown around with Gibbs-spawn bouncing around like it's his first rave.

She's still petrified to tell Gibbs. And everyone else for that matter. Catholic guilt or pure chicken on her part, she doesn't know and she doesn't care.

"Kate," the soft Israeli tone breaks through her reverie. She stands so fast she's palm against the locker to save falling on her face.

"Mmm?" she answers quickly, her eyes on Ziva as she fidgets with her yoga pants.

Ziva seems to study her for a minute before letting it drop. Unlike DiNozzo or Abby (the latter attending a conference in Wyoming), she doesn't push. She simply prefers to wait until the words are on the tip of one's tongue, ears open and ready to catch them when they fall. "Gibbs wonders where you are."

Kate nods absentmindedly. "Two minutes."

Ziva leaves and Kate takes a cleansing breath. Her work-out clothes are the same ones she always wears. If anything they're looser on her body overall, but the spandex on her breasts is unforgiving, and it makes her hands shake more. She wants to run a mile and bury her face in Gibbs' chest simultaneously.

She hates herself for not doing the former. She hates herself wanting the latter.

With another breath, she straightens out the non-existent wrinkles and leaves for the gym.

x

Kate feels the burn of cerulean blue on her the second the doors swish open.

She learns not to shudder under it (unless they're in her mind and then she shudders away) because she knows that's his intent. He has eyes like a hawk and misses less than is surely normal. He wants reactions and facial expressions and he wants to pick them apart and save them for armor when he needs it.

He doesn't need to protect himself from her, but he does so regardless. For her it's the same, only she can barely look at him without thinking of sex and night feeds and school recitals. She can't look at him without wondering if it's a possible reality or a pipe dream she shouldn't indulge in.

"Kate," he calls, and she fakes a smile he has no problem seeing through. The man next to him is baby-faced and staring at her cleavage like it personally gave him life and reason to rejoice in the good of earth. Gibbs' expression is grim and Kate smiles a private smile when his fists clench. "Greg, Special Agent Kate Todd.

His introduction sounds clipped and tight. She wonders if it was less so before Mr. Greg-never-seen-breasts-before started dribbling down his chin.

Gibbs clears the space between them and the smell of sawdust and something purely _him_ is all-encompassing.

There's a beat where she fights the urge to kiss his chest.

His hands clamp down on her shoulders and it feels oddly possessive. The bags under her eyes are so dark that make-up from an angel's ass couldn't cover them, and despite housing a baby, she's lost weight. She knows Gibbs sees it. Wonders about it. (She ignores the urge to ask if he knows yet.)

"Sorry," she mutters. He doesn't voice his concerns but she hears them nevertheless.

His answering smirk is a mask she's trained to see through too. He's worried and it gives her butterflies to know it. The floor becomes increasingly interesting when his stare outlasts her resolve, and she grips his forearms for a second like they're going to burn her if she holds them any longer.

Gibbs eyes don't leave her back until she's in the position to warm up.

x

Her vision colors red and hazy and she wants to rip this man with the restraint of a pubescent hormonal teenager to pieces.

If his hand grazes her breast on "accident" one more time, or if he rolls them like they're mud wrestling again, she's going to introduce her sig to his mouth.

"Stop," she groans, and they rise to stand. He offers a hand but she doesn't want him to know how sweaty they are. There was an initial moment of panic where he had her stomach to the floor, and everything else was secondary to "am I crushing my baby?"

After recalling her Gibbs-spawn is about an inch in size, she relaxed enough to kick his feet out from under him in inhibited frustration, only for his forearm to slap against her side and catch her tit, bringing with it pain that made her stomach turn.

She has yet to read the baby books but she knows something about milk and ducts is going on in them that makes even running down the stairs a nightmare.

She'll go undercover as DiNozzo's wife over being tit-slapped again. (The gasp of pain had Gibbs' eyes on her in seconds though, she pretends not to acknowledge.)

"Giving up yet?" Greg sneers, and she wants to stab his jugular with the sharpest scalpel Ducky has. She's briefly reminded of Ari, and her vision goes hazier.

Her hands unconsciously rub her flat abdomen. "Not on your life. Hold on," Kate adds.

Her forearm is slick when she wipes her forehead, but the action does nothing to ground the fuzziness she's trapped in. She looks outwards towards her team, smiling softly as McGee floors the Probie he's working with. DiNozzo is eyeing the blonde's ass, whose own eyes seem a little too focused on Gibbs.

She considers where in its journey to her mouth is the inevitable vomit.

"Ready?" Greg chirps in again, but she still looks outwards. With a shake off her head, she bends to grab her water-bottle. The groan that sounds behind her is one she tries with every fiber of her being to ignore. Asshole. She hopes he's wearing a cup.

She tucks a piece of dark hair that's fallen loose from her hair behind her ear when she feels the contact on the backs of the knees, and before Kate can register what it is, she's on the floor. The sharp pain in her mouth comes hand in hand with the taste on blood, and more surprisingly, the sting of tears.

"Thought you were never supposed to turn your back on your opponent," Greg's laugh makes her teeth itch.

The blonde is still staring at Gibbs. She's sure the vomit is her chest somewhere. She's his teacher, not his opponent, damnit. Everything is colliding.

Kate Todd is down and she for once, does not want to get up. She can't focus on anything but the fear she'll hurt her baby – Gibbs' baby, theirs.

She rises on her inhale, and the second she's up and steady, her legs wipe out from under her again. She lands on her knees with another thud.

Her head doesn't even rise this time. She just hides behind the curtain of dark hair. When did she start sweating this much?

Footsteps on the mat sound from her right, a miracle in itself that they're heard over the cheers and grunts resonating around the gym, echoing defeats and pain.

Or victory and smugness in some cases.

They've all been at this for so long she can't even keep up. She's too exhausted to try.

Her effort to get up falters when a firm grip lands on her ankles and pulls, effectively taking Kate's full weight from under her before hazardously dropping her like unexpected deadweight, stomach, breasts, hip bones and knees all connecting to the floor in sync.

And then she's done with the bastard who fights dirty.

And furious, and nothing else but murdering him matters.

Before she even distinguishes what is legal and illegal in grappling at NCIS, a surge runs through her and she's on her feet at a speed that two seconds ago was incomprehensible, and the crack of her palm connecting with Greg's cheek is the most satisfying thing she's felt since sweat and heat and Gibbs.

The second slap burns deliciously, and Greg hits the deck with the grace of an anesthetized baby elephant.

She's barely aware of the wetness on her cheeks, and even less so of Tony's responding "have you lost your mind?"

It's only when thick palms take her biceps from behind to immobilize her does she realize she was doing to hit him a third time.

And it wasn't intended as a slap.

Maybe she has lost her mind, after all.

Gibbs spins Kate to face him and shakes her roughly; eyes alight with fury and confusion. "What the hell are you doing?" he growls, a low husking sound.

"What the hell am I doing?" she repeats, voice an octave higher with indignity. "It's you! You did this." Coherency isn't a luxury allows herself as tears slip down her cheeks and the resolve she thought was impermeable breaks apart in Gibbs' hands. "You did this to me!"

And he stumbles, stunned. Confused and dazed as she pushes his chest roughly to escape his bruising grip. No one says a word as she leaves.

Probie Greg receives a death-glare that could finish man and liquefy bone, a parting gift from one Special Agent Gibbs.

Tony knows they won't see him again.

x

"And what exactly _do_ you think, Doctor Mallard?"

"Well, Mr. Palmer, we certainly have a man who was partial to burger and fries, though I certainly hope –"

Jimmy cuts in with the enthusiasm of a toddler. "They were good enough to die for?" He snorts at his joke before he realizes it has fallen on unamused ears.

"Mr. Palmer," the elder medical examiner starts, tone thick with exasperation, but the reprimand is lost from his mouth when the autopsy doors whoosh open, revealing Kate Todd, tear-stained and pale.

"Ducky," it sounds like a plea and a pitiful whimper all at once, childlike and desperate.

To see her in such a way is baffling in the strongest sense. The woman before him doesn't wield a gun with the finesse one would move in dance, and nor does she allow her apparel to look anything less than immaculate.

The woman before him has the weight of the world on her shoulders and no place to rest in her sights. "My dear Caitlin," his voice is soft, aging eyes trained on her.

Her stiff upper lip holds tight for a mere second before again, she crumbles. Second to Abby is Ducky, always.

Jimmy has the decency to excuse himself, a little more than put off by the impervious Special Agent Caitlin Todd looking anything but.

She hoists herself up on the clean and unused autopsy table with the last of her energy. She's hormonal, sore, exhausted and longing for something to eat or to drink that will stay down long enough to feel adequate to at least get her through the remainder of the day.

Ducky disrobes himself of his gown and gloves, washing up as quickly as possible before he moves to hug her with everything he has in him.

He has no idea about what's wrong with her, but the last two weeks sit painted on her face and posture. Abby normally informs him, but not even she knows, and they take little comfort in idle gossip. His hands rest on her protruding shoulder blades.

He's only ever seen her like this when Tony had the plague. But even then she was selfless and brave, strong and unflappable (up until the very end, he ignores.)

Now she clings to him like she'll drown without the safeguard that's his arms.

"Caitlin," he tries, and her body slowly calms. He waits patiently until she meets his eye, and her hazel eyes look positively lost.

She looks lost.

"Whatever is the matter?"

Her mouth opens and closes, but no words come despite the amount of times she tries.

She knows that admitting it is going to make it real and that the thing growing inside of her won't just be "Gibbs-spawn" or "evil-spawn" or anything else she's come up with in the two weeks she's known about him (or her).

It's a baby that she has created with Gibbs. It's going to be a joining that goes beyond longing stares and memories of playful embraces and moans and confessions whispered against heated skin that neither will admit to.

With shaking hands and hazel eyes on Ducky's kind blue, she holds her palm over his own and moves them to rest on her stomach.

When words fail, Kate defers to action, and Ducky's eyes alight with understanding when she looks down at their adjoined hands with an expression that could only be described as tender. A mother's look of a love.

Her lips tremble as he presses down insistently, but with soft hands that circle ever so gently. "You're…the…" and the good doctor is lost for words.

Her whisper is soft and timid. It's spoken like Ducky's the savior in a sea of dead, and only he can save the ones who are still breathing. "Gibbs."

There's stunned silence that follows more of it.

And then, as if the heavens open and their voices become amplified and sent across the skies,

As if Kate's tears are a calling card that only one can respond to,

The autopsy doors swish open again and she feels the familiar burn of cerulean blue on her back.

x


	4. 4

x

Baby hates Mama. Baby loves Daddy.

Baby picks favorites from the womb these days apparently. No one thought to tell Kate _that_ little detail.

For the fifth time in god knows how long, she flips herself over, agitated and a little more than less accommodated for. The baby bump that leaves no room for negotiations, no room for compromises and definitely no room for a comfortable sleep means business. 8 months and 2 weeks' worth of business at that.

My way of sleeping or no sleeping at all, Mama, she practically hears through hazy ears.

She wouldn't be surprised if the kid demands coffee instead of breast milk. Gibbs main-lines it, and seen as his child sleeps about as much as he does, the idea isn't unfathomable.

"Babies hold no opinion on breast milk or coffee, Caitlin." She snaps up. Kate knows that voice and knows who it belongs to, but she was thinking, wasn't she?

"Rest assured, your words were not spoken aloud without your knowledge," the softly accented tone speaks again, and out moves the figure from the shadows.

Bastard, she thinks. "Bastard," he vocalizes. His smirk is smug and righteous and arrogant and, "you want to paint my mouth blood-red," he finishes.

She sits on her bed, mouth agape. He's reading her mind. Voicing her thoughts before she has them, comprehends them.

She doesn't understand.

This isn't possible.

Is it?

_Is it?_

"It is," Ari laughs, dressed in black and looking ever so Mossad. Ziva has the same air about her sometimes, but she has lost most of it to her new home.

She has lost Mossad to NCIS, a father in favor of Gibbs.

Ari Haswari is still as dark, as dangerous and as self-assured as he was the day he blew Gerald's shoulder out, pressed every inch of Special Agent Caitlin Todd against him, and planted a bomb in a café, promising his allegiance to the country while simultaneously working on behalf of Hamas.

No one is quite sure how he managed to spit his lies and explain his way out of not killing Gibbs, but he did, and he hasn't been seen for two years.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Kate's voice is taut and hoarse with a hitch of fear, and one hand moves for the protruding bump as her other slides under her pillow, looking for her trusty old friend – her sig.

"Now, now," Ari teases, and settles on the bed beside her. "You will not need your weapon," miraculously it appears in front of him. "And even if you did…you do not have it," he spins it idly. "I do."

"What do you want?" she tries to fight the tremble in her voice, but Kate has no upper footing, no saving grace in regards to this man. She manages to get a thought ahead, before he swoops past, stopping several paces ahead again. He's good. He's _too_ good.

He leers at her, and she barely has fast enough reflexes to slap the palm away that was going to settle on her child. Just as quickly as she slaps it, she leans closer and the crisp smack of palm on cheek reverberates around the neatly arranged room.

His dark chuckle follows, his Israeli thick in that sound alone. His front teeth stain with blood as he smiles, his eyes burning holes in her chest.

Her breasts are his focus before baby-spawn steals their attention. He reaches out again, and she can't move to stop him.

"I want you, Caitlin," he smiles, patronizing and leery and empty. The only lines on his mouth are harsh and stony. No laugher lines crease his face. "I want you and our child." She gasps before she can stifle it. "I will take you back to Israel and we will be a family."

She smacks him again, and he catches her wrist before she draws back. Ari squeezes harshly but kisses the creamy skin before releasing it. "He's not yours."

That would have sounded a lot fiercer had her breath not hitched, her voice not trembled.

"He," Ari smirks, "is not a he at all. Our child is a girl – our daughter."

"He's not yours!" she screams, lurching forward. He slams her back into the headboard as though she's a rag doll. And then the gleam catches her eye, it appears from nothing with no precedent but with everything to follow. She slumps, seemingly boneless. She's both without fight and without hope.

A slave under the hands, the scalpel of Ari Haswari, how fitting for her.

His smile is heinous and appears like one solid promise of misery.

The scalpel gleams mercilessly under her bedroom light. She absentmindedly wonders what Gibbs will find when he comes home from work.

"Are you ready to meet our baby, Caitlin?"

"Ari, no," she pleads.

"Ari,"

"Ari!"

x

"Kate,"

"Kate," a coarse voice soothes, "it's just a dream," someone is pulling her from the depths of sleep, encouraging her eyes to flicker and her mind's awareness.

Gibbs honestly resists the urge to tear at everything, claw with his blunt nails until he's down to his knuckles.

He hates that bastard. He hates Ari Haswari more than most can fathom, and that bastard's name is something he never, ever wants to hear come from pretty lips that only he should kiss and think about. He's no fool; he knows why Ari didn't hurt Kate. He knows there's something more there for him at least.

And on darkened, lonely nights, with only a boat and a bottle of bourbon mixed with memories of Kate arching backwards, he'll admit he's scared it was more for her too. He's partial to fears, just like everyone else. When they're someone he's in love with? More so.

"You're okay," he murmurs, stroking slick hair back from her damp forehead. His lips flutter against her temple as he whispers reassurances.

When he found her in the morgue earlier, she had met his eyes for a second at most before hopping down and breezing past him, face drawn and pale, shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. Ducky's resolve was impressive as always, and when he'd stormed out, he'd been none the wiser.

He flung himself in his car and headed to where he knew Kate would be.

Her apartment is stylishly designed, homey and crisp from the sheets to the work surfaces. Kate's safe place is as unoriginal as ever, but he supposes his is too.

They both find comfort in their homes.

By the time he'd managed to pluck up the courage to knock, it had gone unanswered, his attempts going hand in hand with her rejection of his calls too.

By the time he'd found the spare key (under the hallway carpet, 15 inches from her door. Now that _was_ original) she led curled up in an NCIS jumper and a pair of panties that left barely anything to the imagination. Not that he hadn't seen it all before. Explored it. Loved it.

Her cheeks were dry, but he'd stayed anyway.

Which is why he's there to soothe her now, as she calls out (to? from?) Ari Haswari. The bastard as he is.

"Gibbs," she murmurs, along with something else that sounds like 'maybe.'

"Maybe?" he asks, barely suppressing a laugh as she brings her forearm up to her mouth, wiping away invisible drool. "Maybe what?"

Her eyes open slowly, gritty from her earlier tears and heavy with sleep. "Yours," she mumbles again, almost indiscernible. "Your baby, not his," she snaps her mouth together, searching in the back of her teeth for a source of water, or a vodka. Whatever comes first, she's not fussy.

Finding nothing but a throat as dry as an Arab's dap, she sits up and looks over to the nightstand – blocked by Gibbs body.

And then she notices his face, jaw slack and his darker skin significantly lighter. She's lucky her apartment is clean, or else he'd be catching flies. She almost laughs before she realizes what she's done, said – dreamed about – and shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Shit.

"Gibbs," she starts, and reaches out for him as she moves to her knees. She doesn't give her attire – or lack of – a single thought. Everything is secondary to Gibbs, and shit, that's not how she wanted him to know.

"Gibbs," she tries again, and he blinks slowly, his eyes running across every inch of her. She fights a wave of nausea that sets up shop in response to his silence.

"Are…" he clears his throat, cerulean blue eyes burning into her, tearing apart and dissecting every inch of what she's hiding. "Are you pregnant?"

Kate shuffles closer so her thighs are touching Gibbs' right that's propped along the bed. Her hand finds his bicep, strong and steady in an ocean of waves and a current determined to pull her under. She fists his shirt tighter.

"I'm sorry," it sounds like a whisper, something lacking her normal vehemence. Self-belief. She nods slowly.

Gibbs gasps like she's punched him one in the gut. There's a long beat of silence before he raises a single brow. "Mine?" there's no judgments in his voice, and when he's not shocked stiff he knows he already has the answer. In her looks, her touches – he knows by the way she is. They are.

"I haven't been with anyone since…"

He nods, but can't help asking. "Before?"

She smiles meekly. "Not for a long time."

That thought gives him a stupid amount of relief and pleasure, and he watches as she stares at nothing for a moment, before jumping off the bed with the grace of a kid on Christmas morning. Her pale legs look small under the jumper, and a lesser man wouldn't bat an eyelid, but he wants her as healthy as possible.

Hell, he always has, but if there's a baby involved…

She searches through her bag before finding what she's looking for, and wanders back over to him with the scans in hand. She lets out a gasp of surprise when Gibbs pulls her into his side so she's resting against him, but it quickly morphs into a shy smile.

If he notices the blush on her pale cheeks, he doesn't acknowledge it.

They sit in complete silence as Gibbs stares at the scan. It's nothing more than a blob on black but he looks at it like it's the best thing he's ever seen in his life.

Gun to head, Kate would bet Gibbs wants this baby as much as she does, and he's had five minutes or so to get his head around it, never mind think beyond that.

She watches his finger trace over the scan lightly, held reverently in hands that built boats and break noses and fire shots.

"Our kid," he says aloud without anything else. His smile sits in her stomach and warms where nausea and dread has camped out for weeks.

A man of few elegant words as always, but in the moment it's perfect. He's not faultless; he's ignored their night as much as she has. She doesn't have it in her to blame, and he hasn't thrown anything or screamed or taken his eyes from her or her scan, so it can't end that terrible.

A flutter in her stomach whispers _calm before the storm_, but the demon is probably laughing at them. A pair of special agents being goo-eyes over a scan and grinning like two teenagers too nervous and too afraid of screwing up to speak.

"Are you angry?" she asks after a while, moving in closer as if it'll keep him from answering in a way she fears.

Gibbs laughs at the question, albeit without a condescending manner. "Relieved. I thought you were sick." A big palm comes down to her side and pinches lightly, leaving a smearing sensation where he pulls. "You've been looking like hell."

They laugh when she smacks his lightly in his arm, and she absentmindedly side-notes to ask him how a man of his age still looks as good as he does. "It didn't cross your mind?" her brows rise in question, but hell; it didn't cross her mind – never mind his.

He shrugs. "Thought you were supposed to get fat and glow when you're pregnant."

Kate laughs again, the grin not faltering when it stops. "You try glowing while throwing up, hiding evil-spawn from everyone and eating nothing but crackers." Her palm settles on her still flattened stomach.

Gibbs looks horrified at the fact she's just called their baby evil-spawn. And has does so without blinking.

"Evil-spawn?" he asks, his deep voice an octave higher with disbelief.

She grins from ear to ear, shimmying her shoulders just a fraction off a shrug. "Let's just say he's your baby for sure."

He feels unexplainably happy by one sentence, which probably has an insult in there somewhere. (He's sure he'll find out.)

"Gibbs," Kate says after another few moments of silence.

"Mmm," he acknowledges.

"What are we going to do?" her voice holds some of the fear she's been feeling, and Gibbs pulls her closer, staring off at nothing.

"I don't know," he answers softly, truthfully. "We'll figure it out."

Chapped lips on her temple are the most assuring thing she's felt in days, and Kate leans into the touch.

And to her delight, Gibbs pulls her closer still.

"Kate?" it's her turn to hum in acknowledgement. "What were you dreaming about, earlier?"

Her mouth parts to answer despite the weight that settles in her stomach at the recollection. At that moment, her stomach picks then to rumble – angry and demanding a chicken sacrifice with everything on top. She meets Gibbs' smile with a blush. "I'll tell you over dinner?"

"Is that a date?" he teases with a nod.

"It can be whatever you want." She deadpans. "You're cooking."

x


	5. 5

x

"I'm having trouble with this."

Kate rolls her eyes for what has to be the tenth time in fifteen minutes. This man is insufferable.

"Jesus," she sighs, though she's beaming – that she knows. "Swipe it; think of strumming a guitar, but go across instead of down."

The brunette looks over to Gibbs. He's led on the left side of her bed, his feet crossed over at the ankles. He looks dangerously at ease, his posture relaxed and as much a sprawl she's going to get from the old man. With a small smile, she finds she likes how he looks. Still dressed in black slacks and a shirt from work, Gibbs looks like a boy-child, and she can't for the life of her figure out how a decorated Marine-turned-Special Agent can't swipe a damn iPad.

"Not that," he growls, his cerulean eyes fixed on the screen before him. His face contorts into something that resembles walking in on your mother while she's changing.

She turns back to folding her laundry at the foot of the bed, opting to ignore the sense of domesticity that comes with it.

"It looks…" if it were another man, she'd expect beautiful, breath-taking, maybe even life-changing should the mood suit, but she's barely surprised when Gibbs settles on "gross." Kate's eyes widen as they meet his. "Come see," he flashes a charming smile. "You tell me this is beautiful and you're free of DiNozzo."

"For how long?" she bargains with a smirk. She should feel self-conscious donning a pair of sport-shorts that barely cover her ass and a hoody that falls mid-thigh, but somewhere between vomiting with his hands holding her hair, and eating a burger like she forgot how to do it, self-consciousness has lost its appeal.

"A week," comes the reply as he shakes the pad at her, and she catches a glimpse of the reddish blob. He raises a brow for the victory he knows is his.

She loves this side of his, she's come to find. A week has passed since she told him about the baby, and that night he'd stayed and cooked her dinner and kissed her sleepy form before locking up and finding the door himself. They've found a happy medium, somewhere, something that feels a semblance like normality, a relationship and mutual trust, all at once. It's surprising to say the least, but they've settled on que sera sera, and who is she to fight it?

Hell, who is he to?

They've managed to keep it to themselves, but the second they get to the doorway – Gibbs shows up whenever the mood takes him (which has happened to be every night since the news, minus the one when he wanted to work on his boat) – it's all glowing smiles and big dreams of a little dream.

Sure there are problems and Kate's sure she has a small army of gray hair already, but it's nothing overwhelming or at all painful.

And when she has Special Agent Gibbs in her bedroom, lounging like he owns the place with his face shoved into a pregnancy app (one he'd laughed at for ten minutes straight when he found it in her downloads, mind you, asking _what's wrong with a good old book?_) how can she fall under the pressure of worries, really?

She hops on the bed and Gibbs absentmindedly smiles at how innocent she can look without a sig and a badge and a face of fire that could melt a lesser man and his whole band of brothers. She settles into his side and allows him to rest the pad on her thighs. Her face screws to mirror his previous one.

"Well…" she starts, and Gibbs gives a burst of laugher. "That's cute, it's cute, right?" his face leaves not even an inch of hope.

"Looks like a puppy with a pole sticking out through its gut," he grimaces, and Kate bites her lip to conceal a smile. The blob that's supposed to resemble their baby fits the bill, and it doesn't help when Gibbs clicks the 3D circle in the corner. They share a smile at the faux-heartbeat though.

He jumps when she slugs him one suddenly. "That's five weeks!"

He stares dumbly.

Kate rolls her eyes. "It doesn't matter what it looked like then, that was 6 weeks ago! Swipe forward," he smirks, motionless, "please."

"It has a tail," he groans.

"Gibbs," it's a warning and a lash of amusement all at once. She likes to pretend it was an accessory, and their kid didn't have a tail at some point, because that hits a little too close to something demonic for the evil-spawn.

She should probably think of a new name now, anyway. He seems to like her more now she's told his dad.

"What week is that – oh, jeez. That looks a little…apish." She tries so hard not to stoop to his level, but she falls with a thud regardless.

Gibbs' responding laughter makes her grin. Sharp blues eyes turn to her with a gleam of mischief. "He gets that from you."

She pouts playfully, swatting him again. "You're a child. One more, that's ten, not eleven."

"Yes ma'am," comes hand in hand with a mock-salute.

There's silence for a beat or two when it comes to the 11 weeks slide. They're not stupid – they know that's not actually their kid, but it's sure as hell more real than sore tits and a still visible six-pack. To look at Kate, there's no baby, no bump. The glow is drowning in morning sickness.

And a really good, expensive bra could explain away the chest thing she has going on.

But it's baby.

A real as hell baby that has little ears and eyes and a little nose – two feet and 10 fingers (hopefully) and while not detectable on the little scan Kate pretends to not know Gibbs has in his wallet, or the one she keeps on the side of her fridge, it's there. It's what's growing inside of her.

"That looks better," Gibbs breaks the silence, a shy smile on his face. "No tail there."

"Definitely not gross," Kate agrees.

They click the little buttons with snippets of information about it, and Kate absentmindedly toys with Gibbs' wrist watch while he's distracted. Gibbs uses Kate's distraction to stray down on the 'the doc says' section, curious about what's going on with Kate as well as the baby.

It's boring things like "feeling tired?" but he already knows she is, and even if he didn't, the black bags under her eyes that rival being punched by a suspect acts as a good indicator. He flips a week before, lingering on "tell your co-workers" for a beat before going to week twelve, sorely disappointed with "nasal symptoms."

"No," Kate gasps when she looks up from his very impressive looking watch to find him on the 'what the hell is going on with mom and why is she so crazy' section, scared and already blushing should he find the things like "bladder/bowels" and "vaginal discharge."

Neither have solidified a relationship, nor suggested or initiated anything further, so the longer she can keep the gross (however natural) things away from him and keep them on the sexy, fun and there was that one thing he did that could border on filthy… no, she mentally retreats, Gibbs = sexy. Body fluid = not sexy.

He gives her a look like "really?" but grins like a school boy when she snaps it shut with a glare anyway.

It's been so long since the easiness has flowed between them, laughing freely and grinning, he really doesn't want that going away again. While there was always an undertone of something more between them, sleeping together goes beyond and beyond that, so to come out alive is a gift. Everything else is just a bonus.

One he doesn't take lightly, and knows she's in kind.

She's gotten used to the experimental palm that always starts on her hand, or her knee, and doesn't jump in surprise when it journeys up or down to her stomach, still taut and tight but it doesn't deter him in the slightest. She's not sure whether he's just copping a feel or if he genuinely enjoys it, but she doesn't stop him, and it feels good enough to let him have his fun. It's kind of sweet, and Kate finds she likes his broad palm on her.

Whether it's the soothing circles he's making, the warmth on her side from his, or the simple ease in which she can sleep without the weight of the world and its other planet friends on her shoulders, Kate finds her eyes dropping heavily.

Gibbs just smiles under the lulling pressure.

Maybe she'll have the decency to not drool on him.

He thinks not.

x

A little known fact to everyone who knows him, Ducky is the perfect gentleman.

And when said gentleman offers to pick you up around eight, you agree.

He wines and dines, picks the restaurant, picks a gorgeous menu and even better wine (that she's not privy to, this time, unfortunately) and provides company to rival that of a long time best friend.

The man, Kate thinks, is a gift from God,

And the apple pie she eats for dessert is the paper he came wrapped in.

"How are you feeling, my dear, _really_ feeling?" he smiles in her direction over his chocolate pudding. She has to admit he's looking rather dapper, and she smirks into her palm knowing he's going home to another lovely lady after this dinner. Abby let the cat out of the bag – Ducky's got himself a girlfriend. (A sane one too)

"Tired," Kate offers with a dismissive shrug, knowing if she doesn't he'll apologize. She quickly moves on. "Better now Gibbs knows. Nervous for everyone else to know," she finishes with. She and Gibbs talked about it for hours, telling people. She's only a week shy of three months, but there's more to it with her job – such as safety and why the hell she's riding a desk.

Changes are going to accommodate what she realistically can't do while pregnant.

Like withstand bombs from women she takes in and trusts, or preferably not, jog with suspected terrorists on her six, just because someone else wants to.

"Ah, yes," Ducky laughs. "It certainly won't take much for Anthony to spot a change." Kate nods in agreement to that statement.

She dips a forkful on the side puddle of cream, considering it. "It almost makes me wish all he could still notice was a nice pair of legs and a perky a –" somewhere on a plush sofa with an evening glass of wine, her mother is screaming to high heavens that she respects her elders. "…butt" Ducky's eyes seem to come alive.

He has such pretty eyes, she notes. Her own grandfather died in the war, and her mother's father seemed to puff into the air with anger every time he saw her bare legs. They don't keep in contact, and she finds herself not missing it. Ducky fills the role perfectly, every time. He's a confidant and Grandpa all in one.

"Ziva has seemed to steady his wandering eyes," they laugh, because oh boy, they're a pair. They make her feel like a sexless three-kid mom with Gibbs in comparison to their 'I swear I'm not eye-sexing,' eye-sex. Sometimes she swears not even being T-boned by a truck will wake them up.

Kate ignores the niggling thought that she and Gibbs are in exactly the same boat, minus the one night sex and kid of course.

Bonus points if Gibbs made it with his own hands though.

"She's good for him," she settles on. Tony's more mature with the Israeli than she's ever seen him, and as his school-boy crush for her develops into something mature and masculine for Ziva, well… she has her privacy back. And fewer headaches from the annoyance.

She's not complaining one little bit.

"Have you an idea of what your parents are likely to say?" Ducky's eyes are all-knowing. She holds her breath for a beat.

Kate thinks of her mother, of her sister, married before children – of her brother's also married before kids, or simply married. "Burn the witch?" she tries for with a self-deprecating shrug. If she was a born a boy she'd be the best, the top dog of all her brothers and she knows it. Her mother knows it and so do they.

But she's not. She's a woman. She's little Caitlin, tiny little body with feminine features who should walk and talk like a lady always, who shouldn't have one of the top places in a man's world, be respected for having an impressive shot and a presence that's know.

Who should act more like Rachel, settling down under a man's thumb; set for life in a world she has no standing.

And God forbid she has a bastard out-of-wedlock with no intentions of staying home until said bastard turns eighteen.

"Caitlin," he whispers sadly. It's no secret to anyone that the lines are split between her mother and her father, and in turn, herself and her siblings.

"My dad will be over the moon," Kate grins for a beat at the thought of her dad. It quickly dies though. "Until he finds out the man whose wing I'm under, who's showing me how to act the best, and be the best, is actually the guy that knocked me up."

She loves Ducky's full bellied laughter and the way his eyes come alive. It's almost worth the feeling in her gut. "Well Jethro is a fair amount older than you… I can see why that would not go over too smoothly. You know, it's certainly common for Fathers to feel protective over their daughters at any age. It's quite a fascinating study, actually."

Kate cocks a brow. "Even when they're packing 90% of the time?"

Ducky sips his wine, contemplating. "Especially then, he's just protecting you. And besides," he adds, "I'm sure Jethro can take care of himself."

"Yeah," Kate agrees with an open nod, absentmindedly thinking of the time her Father strung her college professor up in front of a hall full of other students after finding an _innocent _text message. Granted, it was completely _not_ innocent, but neither was she at that age. "Here's hoping."

They find less serious conversations to stray over while Ducky has another glass of wine, and she a coffee, finding the easy comfort more than enjoyable.

And then, in true gentleman form, when it's time to pay the bill (Kate's quick reflexes grab it first, card in hand at the ready,) Ducky threatens to leave her there unless she hands it over. He point-blank refuses to split it.

The gleam in his eye shifts from grandfatherly and affectionate to playful albeit serious,

And Kate doesn't doubt he will. His grin is self-satisfied all the way to her front door.

With a smile, a kiss and a thank-you for the lovely evening, Kate leaves her company and lets herself into the apartment.

She finds Gibbs, sleeping face down on her sofa.

A lovely evening indeed.

x


End file.
